


chasing friday night's warmth

by song_takemehome



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bara Sans (Undertale), F/M, Female Reader, Flirting, Jealousy, Protective Grillby (Undertale), Puns & Word Play, Reader Insert, Skeleton Puns, female oc - Freeform, one-shot??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_takemehome/pseuds/song_takemehome
Summary: “Don’t know about that, I’m pretty badass.”At that, you bark out a short laughter. “Last time I checked, skeletons don’t have asses?”“Wanna help me test that—”you're a newbie, sans likes you (a lot), and grillby is not amused.





	chasing friday night's warmth

“Are you sure?”

For a fleeting moment, you snag the fine skin of your bottom lip between your teeth, an unconscious habit born in place of potentially nibbling your fingers to nothing. The flesh burns with meager stings the more skin you peel off. It’s not a better habit, but it’s preferable to unattractively gnawing your digits. One of these days, you’re convinced you will end up without lips if you keep up the mindless act.

You have contemplated enough hours for the past few days before settling on a beneficial decision for both you and your housemate. “Yep,” the pop of the 'p' is a soft pronunciation as you dip your head once, “it’s this or nothing.” More lip biting ensues while you absently glide a finger along the jagged edge of a hastily torn flyer tab until it becomes closer to being as straight as the other ends.

Not entirely surprised about the answer but displeased all the same, Diane purses her lips to an emphatic protrusion. “I’m glad you found an opportunity, trust me, but you don’t even know what you’re going in for. I mean, all you know is that they need an extra pair of hands for part-time and their number; it’s too vague for my liking,” she says.

Your shoulder gently hitches at your friend’s attempt to encourage careful reconsideration. “If it were a fast-food restaurant, I just know you would be pushing me through the doors this very second. Yes, it’s a bar, but it’s small, relatively close by and has part-time hours, which is perfect for my schedule. You know this semester has been hectic for me—”

“And getting a job will make it easier on you? Right.” Diane snorts with an eye-roll so hard just watching her you feel the beginnings of strain in your own skull.

Indignation taints your sigh, as you’re unable to wrap your head around why the two of you are _still_ playing a tennis match on this matter when you both know what the best option is.

“I need it. Being jobless is far more stressful, if you hadn’t taken the time to notice. Do you honestly think you can pay off the rent, bills, and provide us food?” Diane makes to protest, mouth parted to showcase the blush of her tongue, but you raise an eyebrow and dare her to fight against this further. “We agreed to share the rent and I’m not letting you take on the responsibility by yourself. Plus, we won’t survive a month just with your income alone, and you know it.”

Diane sighs with equal frustration and scrubs her face flush. “I understand that you need a job and that it’s been rough since you’ve been without one, but you’re hardly experienced in the bar setting, let alone being around monsters.”

Taking immediate offense at the offhand implication of her words, you become rigid. Diane isn’t as worried about the crowd you choose to associate with as she is about the field of work you have to settle on, because she trusts you to stay out of harm’s and trouble’s way. She believes monsters are living beings with conscious minds whom are prone to emotions just as the next human; however, her slip of reasoning touches too close to sounding like bigotry.

“They aren’t any different from humans,” you say a bit harsher than you expect of yourself.

Your objectionable approach isn’t lost on Diane. Shame colors her face the second she pinpoints what she said wrong. Tucking a blonde lock behind her ear, she murmurs, “I’m sorry. I sounded a bit prejudiced, didn’t I?”

Your pinched expression softens to let her know it’s of the past already. “I know you didn’t mean any harm by it,” you say.

“Look, you can work with monsters or humans, it doesn’t change anything. But you can’t deny that you haven’t even had your fair share interacting with monsters. It might be overwhelming, work-wise. What I’m trying to say is I’m just worried for you, especially since you’re dead set on working in a bar of all things,” she says.

You can’t stop the small smile. “Since when have I ever let your overprotective tendencies stop me?”

Diane playfully narrows her eyes at you, and says, “Unfortunately, not as many times as I would like.”

“I’m an adult woman who knows what she’s doing and what her limits are. Besides, if in the case of an emergency, I have your number.”

“Alright, alright.” She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Go ahead and make the call, then.”

* * *

So enraptured with the rhythmic motions of cooking is Diane she misses the slamming of the door and the melodious vibrato you hold at an impressive volume, although that only lasts for a brief moment before your voice cracks the note in half. It isn’t until you trot into the kitchen with an outro twirl with arms held open and a wide grin nearly splitting your face your friend finally turns away from cubing some potatoes.

“Guess who got the job?” you sing, tossing your backpack somewhere to the side you originally would have grimaced about, unable to bear the careless manner but too happy to care at the moment.

Diane chuckles at your display. “Oh, I don’t know, the mailman?” she says.

Even that harmless joke doesn’t deter the mood overflowing from you like a broken faucet. “Me; now, give me a hug!”

“Congrats.” Diane’s smirk melts into a gentle smile, and she nearly falls over from the colliding force of the hug. “Ow; okay, I have boobs!”

* * *

“He’s a what?” The blonde woman’s forkful of chicken pauses right before being enveloped in the depths of her mouth that’s now loosely hanging open.

“I said he’s a fire monster.” You, in comparison, are casually chowing down your dinner. She’s getting better at mastering soft potatoes that don’t end up into accidental mush, you think.

“You’re employer’s made of fire?”

“Completely.”

It takes a good hour to convince her there isn’t a chance of danger even scuffing your heels when around the elemental monster, because he has impeccable control of his flames that are generally harmless. You wonder how she isn’t your adopted mother at this point.

* * *

You will never admit it for the sake of your pride, but Diane was right. On an average night, Grillby’s is a modest monster bar with a steady flow of patrons, yet the set pace on a Friday night is overwhelming, especially since you happen to be the only cocktail waitress serving customers aside from Grillby, who is strictly stationed behind the bar. On a side note, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone prepare drinks as quick as the owner.

She was also right about your exposure to monsters (you try not to rudely stare). During your first evening, monsters had spared you a glance but no more. It has been some years after all, and you don’t doubt it in the least that they must have counted down the days until their server eventually turned out to be a human. You, on the other hand, had lived in an area untouched by the risen species for a majority of your younger years. At eighteen, you had finally moved closer to the monster-human regions for college. Four years have passed since, and while the city is generously populated with monsters, you hardly ever come in contact with any. You aren’t one to walk up to a stranger and strike up conversation, anyhow.

A good week in and you realize while some come off as more intimidating than others, it’s all but the appearance factor. You're far from being uncomfortable in their presence, rather, you’ve grown quite familiar with the variety of monsters that come and go. So when a hulking skeleton, who receives a hearty welcome, makes way passed the glass door with a chiming bell, you quickly glance at the new arrival beneath the frame of your lashes and casually return to your task of cleaning up a table that was occupied minutes ago.

Swiftly, you stack plates with remains of food and perspiring, empty glasses and whisk away to the kitchen, weaving through tables and stray monsters about. You reenter the dining area, armed with a new towel and spray bottle of cleaning solution.

Music from the corner jukebox plays in the background, and you know this song, so you sing along under your breath while you wipe down the table in slow, wide gestures. The motions are therapeutic, following an echo of the tune gracing the bar. You find satisfaction seeing the once crumb-scattered surface become scourged, relishing in the way the smattering speckles of the cleaning solution become wet, even streaks. Soon, the whole table top is moist and clean, giving off false impressions of being recently buffed. You preen at your faint reflection before heading to return the cleaning supplies.

You need to do your rounds, a duty that’s beginning to become easier by the night. With a single beat to your black apron, you drop by each table to inquire if they’re in need of anything else. A majority of the tables turn up content with what they have, only a couple needing refills. With long strides, or as best you can in your pencil skirt, you travel back to the bar where Grillby is homed at.

“Another White Russian and two pitchers of beer, please,” you shoot to the fire monster who’s engaged in amiable talk with the thick-boned skeleton slouched in the barstool.

You give him a good once over and find yourself snorting privately in amusement: you don’t think you’ve seen anyone as close to being the quintessence of the word ‘lazy’ until this monster. He melts into his seat, molding seamlessly with the cushion; his hands are buried deep into the pockets of his steel blue hoodie that compliments a white tee; and his black track pants covered legs drape off the edge of the seat, bent at a great angle because his pink slippered feet hook onto the footrest. He manages to fit into the stool and make it look too small for him all at once, what with the way he spills over it, like he were a jacket carelessly tossed onto the seat.

At your request, Grillby wordlessly nods, getting quick to work.

“Hey, no need to be _Russian_ around, Grillz.”

You pause at the baritone that rumbles, blink once, blink twice, and slowly turn to eye the skeleton beaming a lazy, shit-eating grin at the bartender who is not impressed. He seems to notice your undivided attention, canting his head just a fraction to glimpse at you from the corner of his sockets, a single, white pinprick of light serving as his eye. His grin tilts crooked to one side, jaw rising with the movement.

You watch in utter fascination as, what seems to be solid, immovable bone of one eye socket, slides close in a lethargic wink. Seconds pass by before the pun registers. A hand slides over your lips twisting into a trembling smile that you attempt to fight back. The skeleton’s set of pearly, large whites seem to widen, bringing attention to his sharp cuspids. You’re unable to help the snort, merely fueling his ego.

You twist to hide your florid face into your shoulder, frame quivering from laughter being restrained to the best of your ability. You laugh, not because the pun is funny, but because it’s so stupid. After a moment of regaining your lost breath and composure, you reluctantly peer back at the skeleton who now angles himself to face you, still grinning and sockets lowered to give a half-asleep look.

“Thanks for laughing; at least someone appreciates my jokes,” he says through his enclosed teeth (how does that even work?).

You chuckle, a mere breath spilling from your mouth, politely dismissing his gratitude off with a shake of your head. Those pricks of lights are cemented on you, firmly latched onto your own eyes.

“I’m quite the _humerus_ ,” he jabs out his upper arm in emphasis, taking great pride at the choke of giggles that manages to squeeze through your lips you’ve folded in, “one, I’m _patelling_ you—”

“Sans, I would appreciate it if you didn’t pollute my employee’s head with your abominable puns,” Grillby says in a harsh monotone tenor, while setting a tray of finished drinks on the counter with more force than necessary.

His glasses are nothing but pure glares of the white slits of his eyes as he looms over the patron. The skeleton is tall, but Grillby is just as tall.

You quickly straighten, bashfully glancing between the monsters locked in an intense stare down. The skeleton, who you now know as Sans, shrugs, even barely so. Lights of his sockets sweep to the bartender whose flames are flickering more rapidly than his usually serene waving fires.

“Yeesh, no need _tibia_ so harsh, Grillz.” He glances at you, and you look away, teeth sinking dangerously into your bottom lips that insist tugging into a smile.

You intervene before the gradually whitening fire monster can say or do anything further that might end up messy. “It’s okay, I needed the laugh,” you tenderly beam at Grillby, quelling whatever temper that was building.

His tense shoulders slump in defeat after a moment, unable to rebel against the smile that’s steadily becoming his weakness. “Fine. Best you deliver the drinks,” he gently reminds, his velvet voice soothing the tight atmosphere.

You nod once, balancing the tray of drinks on your forearm before pivoting on your heel to serve the beverages, not before flashing a small smile to Sans who is silently observing the two of you.

* * *

You realize his grin is, in a sense, a permanent feature. Along with his terrible puns, you also discover he has a strange affinity with ketchup. A _very_ strange one. You watch in silent horror, horror that you ever so carefully fight to keep from dominating your face, as Grillby nonchalantly squeezes a monster brand of ketchup into a mixer with a shot of straight vodka. It doesn't take long to prepare, and he’s pouring the concoction into a highball glass.

“Thanks,” Sans simply drawls, downing half of the viscous blend as if it were a normal Bloody Mary.

Grillby shakes his head at you when you look about to question why, not understanding himself. You douse your curiosity for the time being. You have seen hangover food, and drinking ketchup, while not something you will turn to in desperation, is one of the less disgusting choices, you suppose.

“Well,” you begin, catching both their attention, “since tomato is considered a fruit, ketchup is, in a way, a smoothie, I guess.”

Sans guffaws, a hand clasping over his sockets with a faint clacking of bone against bone. You aren't even trying to be funny, unsure if you should take it as a compliment.

“I like you,” he says with a single tilt of his head toward you, glowing marbles holding you in place with invisible force. His grin splits wider when he spots the faintest pink dusting your cheeks.

Grillby only offers a shake of his head and continues polishing a glass dry.

* * *

The fire monster is in the back for a moment and asks you to keep an eye on the crowd. Mixing drinks is out of your league, as you’re only hired as a cocktail waitress, so you can’t serve anyone, except perhaps Sans. In all honesty, you would rather not take up the art, not confident enough to remember all the drinks or to enjoy it even remotely. While you took up waiting without hesitation, you actually prefer not to work where interacting with customers comes into play.

Beggars can't be choosers, you remind yourself repeatedly.

After a week, you deem the job not as terrible as you or Diane feared. That and you’re familiar with waiting now. Grillby tells you that your volume in speech has become louder and body language more welcoming. Since the staff consists of him, you, a chef, and a custodian, jobs are juggled in between the four of you, and you’re given the privilege of one-on-one training by Grillby himself. You instinctively adhere to the fire monster in this foreign setting. Plus it doesn’t hurt that he seems to have taken an instant liking to you.

“So, kid.”

It dawns on you as you’re meticulously washing glasses that you’re the “kid” Sans is talking to. Although you don't particularly mind, you would rather not be referred to as a child. You assume he’s aware you must be a legal adult to work here and is just poking fun at you. You lift your attention from lathering a handful of shot glasses to the skeleton who is now leaning heavily on his elbow against the counter top, chin resting in his boney palm. Even sitting down and slouching, he still manages to seem so much bigger than you.

“Any particular reason why this place?” he asks, long, thick phalanges mindlessly tracing the lip of his sweating highball glass.

It takes a second to process that he’s asking why a human, like you, is working in a monster bar, like this. Or perhaps, species aside, he’s purely asking a simple why. You shrug, resuming your task and head falling to one side. “I was jobless, I’m a student, and it’s close to my apartment.”

He nods, a slow gesture that nearly makes it seems as if he is nodding off to sleep instead. He finishes his drink, which you promptly sweep up to clean, and says, “Promise you there isn’t a bad _bone_ in any of these fellas.”

“Including yourself?” you cheekily ask with a sarcastic smile, but a smile nonetheless.

As always, his teeth are on display in a broad, idle grin, but it seems to widen at your hint of playfulness. Sans launches himself back into the barstool with an audible collision.

“Don’t know about that, I’m pretty badass.”

At that, you bark out a short laughter. “Last time I checked, skeletons don’t have asses?”

“Ah, but I’m no ordinary skeleton, am I?”

“So are you implying you have one?”

While he’s capable of expression, his face has generally been set in a neutral manner throughout the night, his smile being the only indication of anything, so it’s difficult to conclude whether he’s joking or not.

“Being completely held together by magic, which happens to be my very essence, I wouldn’t say it’s impossible,” he explains with a slow shrug.

You look on doubtfully, even if you’re highly aware of what monsters are capable of. Hell, your boss is a living flame, and over the week you’ve witnessed several feats and such the monster has done with a few flicks of his fingers. Suddenly you realize there’s a devilish undertone to his grin and a certain glimmer in those pricks of lights in his all-consuming sockets of pure blackness.

“Wanna help me test that—”

“I believe you’ve had enough to drink tonight, Sans.” Grillby appears out of seemingly nowhere, giving you quite the fright, but you manage to not squeak out a sound. His tone is placid as usual, but his words are nothing short of a bite.

“That was only one glass,” the skeleton challenges half-heartedly with a mirthful grin and lift of one brow bone.

His single, now clean, glass is proof of that. You know but keep quiet. You have an inkling feeling that while Grillby is generally mild, he won’t be so forgiving if ticked. He isn’t a fire monster for nothing.

Sans decides not to further provoke the other, shooting both palms up in surrender. When the bartender returns to the kitchens, you (can’t believe you’re about to do this) hurriedly snatch the bottle of ketchup out of the mini fridge and squeeze out a fair amount into a glass, splash it with vodka, and give it an unceremonious stir until it’s incorporated decently enough. You urge it toward his hands, peeking over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry on his behalf. He’s been kind of…tense since I’ve been working here. Just wants to make sure I’m comfortable, you know? Seems he’s been hounding on you all night, so just take this as a peace offering,” you say.

Sans is silent, merely staring at you with a blank stare. Even his grin is slightly slack, and you anxiously wonder if you’ve inadvertently offended him some way. Before you can recoil, a mess of apologetic speeches clustering within your mind, he slowly accepts the glass and downs it.

“Appreciate it a lot, kid,” he rumbles out, grin ever present.

You smile.

* * *

Sans wonders.

* * *

“Alright, best I call it a night, else Paps will yell my ears off for staying out too late,” the skeleton announces after finishing his basket of Grillby’s famous fries.

He twirls his debit card, like a dexterous card dealer, and ends the mini show with the plastic held between two ivory fingers pointing toward you and another wink. You giggle, taking the proffered card to swipe. While you take care of the payment, Sans keeps Grillby busy. Receipt in hand, you rejoin their side, walking right into the middle of their banter.

“I was just being friendly, wasn’t I, kid?” Sans abruptly turns your way. You don’t understand what’s being said, so opt to remain in silent confusion. “Go on, tell Grillz.”

Mentioned fire monster refuses to break his hard stare with Sans and blindly seeks the card and receipt from your hold. He finds them without your guidance and returns the items. Just like the first time the two of you shook hands upon meeting, his flames tenderly lick any surface of skin it comes in contact with, as if its an entity of its own. The warmth of his fire is so pleasant you’re disappointed when the touch is brief and the heat dissipates just as quick.

“Aw, come on. Just earlier you agreed he was giving me a hard time. Don’t tell me you’ve bailed out on our budding friendship already,” Sans says.

Grillby’s eyes snaps to you, and you know for a fact it isn’t his flames that burn your face rose. The bartender flicks a sharp brow up in question, waiting for your confirmation. You don’t know how you’ve ended up in this situation. Your gaze flits between the two monsters, yet again, this time trying to assess what the issue is.

“Um, Sans wasn’t bothering me, if that’s what you assumed,” you say, hoping it will appease the situation. Before Grillby can protest, you cut in. “Don’t worry, if I’m having trouble with the customers I’ll come to you first. And trust me, Sans has made this Friday quite enjoyable,” you add, beaming at them both.

Sans grin carves deeper and wicked, as if he’s won the competition. “Told ya, Grillz. Got nothing to worry about with me, you know I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Hmph,” is all Grillby says. “I suppose that’s true. Although, I still do worry about your inability to pay off your tab.”

Sans winces. “Working on that.”

“Slowly.”

“Hey, better than ditching the city, stealing a new identity, and conveniently faking amnesia when we run into each other, right?”

You burst out laughing, although, you end up covering your face.

“I’m hilarious.”

“Leave, unless you would like to offer your assistance with cleaning up?”

Sans suddenly takes your hand and shakes it. You’re surprised by the warmth from the bone; it isn’t as hard as you would have thought, either.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he says.

“You, too, Mr. I’m-Hilarious,” you quip, pulling a snort from the skeleton.

“Please refrain from encouraging him, it will only make him worse,” Grillby says, clasping a hand on your shoulder and gently drawing you away.

“Yes, sir.” But you’re smiling.

“Fine, I’m taking my leave. Expect me Fridays, kid.” And he’s out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> a piece of writing i had stashed. not sure if i want to keep it as is or create more for it. constructive criticism is appreciated. thank you for reading.


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